Solicit
by SociallyObscene
Summary: Rule number one of the zombie apocalypse: trust no one. To get what you want, you have to trick, deceive, and manipulate. You have to solicit, be better than the rest - only if you want to survive. But when paranoid Fang Walker meets his first survivor, all of those rules go out the window. Maximum Ride doesn't play by the rules. She has her own set.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! This is my first story! I'm super excited to see what you guys think. Are any of you guys out there zombie nerds like I am? ^_^ I put a little bit of Hannibal into this for all of you Hannibal geeks out there, too.**

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**Disclaimer: I don't own Maximum Ride, James Patterson does!**

_Where were you when it happened?_

The common, simple question is always asked when you meet another survivor. It's taken the place of "how are you?" or "how is the weather?". Fang can remember right where he was. It was the last day that everything seemed to be going well. He woke up early from one of his many nightmares - a wild animal ripped out his throat, walking across his dream. His skin felt crushed and skinned, and the back of his neck burned, like someone was... watching him.

Fang sifted through his hair with one hand, letting out a sigh. Every night, for the past two months, ended just like this. By now, his usually straight hair was reduced to thin curls, and his eyes were constantly filled with images of antlers.

His friends thought he had had been drinking too much, but the truth was that he'd have just one or two sips of wine before going to bed. Definitely not enough to get him drunk, and definitely not _excessive._

However, "excessive drinking" was exactly Fang's excuse for his brain's short circuiting. Nightmares didn't really seem to create the mess that had become Fang Walker, or at least that's what he'd expect other people to think. To others, he was positive that a few bouts of bad sleep couldn't have done such a colossal damage to him in such a short time. Although it was the reason of his actual dismay, there was no way he'd let something as trivial as a bad dream - or in Fang's case, _nightmares _- interfere with the way his friends thought of him.

Well, if the "drinking problem" hadn't already shattered his clean-cut appearance already.

"My name is Fang Walker," Fang reminded himself. This was something that his psychiatrist told him to do when he was experiencing many nightmares in one night. "I am in Greenwood, Delaware, and it is 3:34 AM."

That usually did the trick. It was almost hypnotic, like he would cease to feel the way he had, of course, been for the whole night. But this just made him even more restless. Almost as if someone was watching him utter every syllable of his nightly exercise, something they had done so frequently that they could say it along with him. Almost as if it made _them _comfortable and at ease to hear the words as well.

Fang shivered.

It was true that Fang was a very paranoid person. There were many times in which he could recall being looked at strangely because of his paranoia, and the reasons why weren't always absurd. He had been caught late at night sometimes with the bar that hung his clothes from his closet, marching about his small room. He never sat down, just crouched, so that he could get up and run fast. He slept backwards, without sheets, so that he could move out of his bed in case anything happened, and always kept a backpack filled with food, water, matches, and other survival gear next to his bedside table. He always wore shoes, even to bed. Always wore a watch, and constantly looked at the time - it was almost as if he expected it to be extremely different every time he looked at it again. But these things made up Fang Walker. This was who he was.

It pained him to think that someone might _know_ _all these things _ about him. Like it was reciting the alphabet. That's why he hated it.

Whenever his nightly exercise didn't work, Fang would get out of his bed and walk around a bit. He layered on warm wear on, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and took his toothbrush and toothpaste. He never left the house without necessities.

It was cold inside his house, a chill that lapped his face and laughed at his discomfort, one that always seemed to creep up at around four in the morning. Not yet morning, but not night, either. Something in between. Fang shifted the grip on his bag slowly, carefully not making a sound. He was used to sneaking out at night to see friends so that they could drink together, and his father was a very heavy sleeper anyway. Fang could hear him snoring in his room as he passed it down the hallway.

The feeling of being watched didn't leave. Of course, Fang always thought like he was being watched, but this time it felt like it was someone moving along with him, not watching. Stalking. He had never felt that before.

Filled with fear, Fang reached for his cell inside the deep pockets of his jeans. He dialed the first number that came to his mind: his sister, Tara.

One ring. Nothing.

Two rings. Nothing.

Three rings. Nothing.

She picked up on the fourth.

"Fang? What the fuck are you doing calling me up at this hour?" she hissed. "It's four in the fucking morning and I have to get to work at six."

He smiled at her vulgarity, but it quickly faded as he shivered again, but not because of the four AM chill. Stalker. "I know it's shallow and petty," he said, trying to swallow the urgency in his tone, "but I need you here."

"Son of a bitch, Fang, can't it wait?" she asked, although she knew that it couldn't. Fang wouldn't call her unless he needed it.

"No, it can't. Someone's...watching me." He lowered his voice.

"Isn't someone _always _watching you?"

"No. This time, they're stalking me."

She paused. "Doesn't that happen, too?"

"No. No, it doesn't."

She swallowed, a thick gulp against the receiver. "Do you think someone is actually there?"

"This time, I'm positive."

"You better be fucking right, moron," she said. Fang could hear the engine of her Buick start. "I'll be there in a few."

"Um, Tara?"

"What, Fang." It wasn't even a question.

"Can I stay on the phone with you for a bit longer?" He hated how childish and vulnerable he sounded. How he was pleading.

"Do you _want _me to get in a car crash?"

"I'll see you later, then."

She laughed. "Grudgingly, but you will."

He hit the end button and placed his phone in his pocket, staring at the space in between the door and the hinge, that small crack that led to the outside. He stared at it, knowing all he was looking at was a deep black, but felt mesmerized by it.

"My name is Fang Walker," Fang reminded himself. "I am in Greenwood, Delaware, and it is 4:03 AM."

_Bang._

Immediately, Fang's body went cold. The stalker was tired of hearing it. Time after time, as he stayed in his house afraid to go outside. He could hear a deep voice say, _yes, you're in fucking Greenwood. You haven't been anywhere else. _Instinctively, his hand reached in his back pocket, retrieving three of his many knives. He had never needed to use them on a person, but he was damn good at throwing knives. He had made sure of it.

The paranoia that so commonly filled Fang was unbearable. His body was shaking, tremors of fear responding to him. In his mind, however, Fang didn't even notice it. He didn't even feel the pins and needles digging into his skin and warning him not to chase it. To live in his own mind.

He was so sick and fucking tired of it.

A flash of silver came from one of the windows, and Fang heard a gunshot fire. He dropped to the ground, anticipating the pain that was no doubt about to come at him, but it didn't come. It was almost as if the shot had fired at something outside the house.

"What the fuck?!" he heard a voice scream from outside. Was that his stalker? His would-be killer?

Fang raced to his room, grabbing any sort of weapon he could find. His running shoes made a loud _thump _against the hardwood floor of the house. Fang grabbed anything he could find that would aid him survival - medicines, imperishable foods, water. It was a tight fit in his backpack, but he knew that he could empty it later. The seething heat of paranoia was digging into his skull, and his eyes were burning, blurry. He couldn't focus on one thing without his vision diverting onto something else.

Fang wasn't going to be able to meet up with Tara. He wanted to call her at that very moment, to apologize. Because he was going to end her life the second she came to his house. He knew it. He knew it.

_He_ _fucking knew it._

There was no time to redial Tara's number. Greenwood was a very small town, and he was positive that she would be there in a second. But what had distracted the stalker? What was outside? What was so bad that he had to blow his cover to Fang and destroy it? No matter what was out there, there had to be more. And they weren't going to stop at his stalker.

"Shit," Fang whispered. "Shit, shit, shit." The curses escalated louder and louder, and he scrambled to get to the car.

And then it hit him: where was his father? There was no way that he had time to go and get him, or to find that he was already gone. Fang didn't have the time. All of those memories of his father came into his mind as he reached for the keys of a car he didn't know how to drive. Them at the football game. Fang showing his father his straight As on his report card. His father driving his mother out of the house, telling her that he didn't need a woman who "fucked other men." Fang pleading to his father that he would never drink again and to _please, _don't hit me because of it, because _I don't want to be like you even more than I have already become. _

He wouldn't mind his father being gone, he thought bitterly. But deep down, he knew he did. Fang swallowed thickly as his throat became dry.

Fang approached the front door of his one story house. He stared at the black space between the door and the hinge, and wondered if it would ever be bright again after tonight, and laughed at his pessimistic attitude. He had always been a "glass empty" kind of guy.

The door rattled as Fang fumbled to open it, bracing himself for the cold wind in Delaware, and whatever was outside. He couldn't see anything, even as the faded morning light helped aid his eyes, but he could definitely hear it.

Moaning. A chorus of moaning, from a group of something that did not sound even remotely human. It was coming from the woods behind his house, from the window that his stalker was at. Fang raced to the car and flung his backpack onto the passenger seat, putting the key in ignition and doing whatever he could. He didn't know how to drive, really, he was only fifteen, but he had learned a few things from the guys he would drink with - it just wasn't much.

As soon as he pulled out of the driveway and onto the street, he grabbed his phone and dialed Tara's number again.

One ring. Nothing.

Two rings. Nothing.

Three rings. Nothing.

Four rings. _Come on, Tara, pick up._

Five rings. Still. Nothing.

It kept ringing and ringing, and it almost made Fang dizzy.

"_Hello, you've reached Tara Walker. If it's really urgent and I'm not here, then you can find someone else, because chances are I'm too lazy to do something about it. Leave a message, and if I like you, I'll give you a ring back. Toodles, T."_

Fang threw his phone in the back seat of the car, anger pulsing through his veins. He had to leave his house. Someone was trying to kill him. His sister Tara won't even answer him. She _had _to have been at his house minutes before he even left, but something was blocking her way.

And then he saw them. Six of them, maybe more. People, shambling into the clearing from the woods in Fang's rearview mirror. It was too dark to see their facial features, but they weren't chasing Fang's car. They were after the house right next to his, one with a car pulling out of the driveway and heading the opposite direction Fang was going in.

The neighbors were on the same lines as Fang was, but everyone in town knew that the way out was south, where Fang was headed. Definitely not north. That just dragged people on the edge of town, shrouded by nothing but underbrush and thick trees. A dead end, that way. The neighbors knew that. It made no sense why the would be heading right into the woods where more of those people were. Those moaning things.

Fang let out a laugh, a shaky, jittery laugh that hurt his dry throat when it coursed out of his mouth. Idiots were idiots, he supposed, and there was nothing he could do to change that. He just assumed that his neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Davenport, were smarter than that. They were both doctors, even, with a remarkable sense of navigation. Fang shrugged and focused on the road.

"My name is Fang Walker, I don't know where the fuck I'm heading, and it is 4:19 AM."

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**What did you think? **

**-SociallyObscene**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello! It's been a while! But here's chapter 2!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Maximum Ride**

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She knew Denver International Airport like the back of her hand.

She knew the parking garage, both terminals, the baggage claim, and was on a first name basis with a flight attendant by the name of Elise. For some reason, though, she had never wanted, or had never been, on platform five.

There were many reasons. The garage was never full enough to force drivers to the shadeless, hot roof - or, depending on the season, covered in snow - of Terminal East, and it was a hassle just getting all the way up there, then coming back to find the car scorched or buried.

So it was a bit obvious why Maximum Ride's heart filled with dread when she saw that the first four platforms read FULL in a heartbreaking shade of red on the lowest level of the parking garage. She knew it was silly, how much she didn't like a platform, but it was better than some of her other ludicrous fears.

Max put her Jeep in row D, squished between two unfortunately coloured Mini Coopers, and grabbed her navy duffel with one hand while sliding out of the driver's seat.

Although she was constantly flying to Denver from her home in New Zealand, Max hated airports. She hated the nosy security guards, and the throng of rushing people lugging large carry-ons. She definitely hated how close everyone was on the shuttle, and how she could hear several different conversations ranging from English to Swahili at all times. Max looked around, shoving her itinerary into her back pocket. _Today, I'm starting to believe people when they tell me I'm a pessimist. I can't blame them._

After checking in, Max strode over to the escalator, passing a woman in a traditional cow girl outfit working the information desk. She tipped her hat to Max and asked her if she needed anything.

"No, ma'am." Max looked over to the gaping pit that was security. The crowd was enourmous, throngs of people being whisked through the endless line. She would be there for an hour at least.

"There's one thing you could do, ma'am," Max said, not tearing her gaze from the TSA guards in their unfortunate royal blue attire.

"What's that?" She gave Max a small smile, like she was the first person today she could help.

"You could make the lines shorter." She laughed. Max repositioned her shoulder to the strap of her duffel.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," she said, "but you're a hoot. My hat's off to you." She took off her ten-gallon hat, digging a hand into her messy hair. Max flashed a quick smile before stepping down the escalator, hoping the lines would go speedy.

Security was the main reason that Max hated airports. Even if there wasn't a long line, it was always extremely annoying to take off her shoes, have the TSA agents look through her bag, and, the most nerve wracking part, stepping into the reader completely exposed with her arms over her head. She dreaded the day they would miraculously find something, something she didn't have, and then treat her as a terrorist threat.

Of course, Max knew that it was completely irritation, but a girl could have fears, right?

She stepped in line behind a woman with beautiful fair skin and a silky green dress that crescendoed over her waist into thin curls. Max stared down at her tight jeans and sneakers, shrugging. She was no Irish goddess, but she did care about what she looked like.

Just not to the airport.

Max's phone buzzed in her back pocket. UNKNOWN CALLER, it read.

"Hello?" She asked, pressing the cell to her ear. There was no response. "Hello? Hello?"

A raspy voice answered on the line. It was quiet, so quiet that Max almost thought it was her own breath.

_"They're coming."_

Her eyes widened. _Who the hell are you? _She thought, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, an erratic thump. She didn't notice that the person had hung up until she heard the dial tone wake her from her stupor. She hit the _end _button of her throwaway flip phone and sighed.

_Who the hell is coming?_

* * *

The rest of the way to the top of the line was exhausting. Max's head was pounding, a heated inferno that kept knocking incessantly on her skull, saying, _"can you feel this one? How about this?" _Her mind was wracking for an answer. Who was that man? His voice was a ragged whisper, a ghost of a sound on the receiver. It was difficult to think about the words, the intention of this person. Had it really been a warning?

Max gave her ID to the TSA guard with an irritated expression on her face. He made a quick joke about New Zealand for a second and then asked her to say something to her with her accent before giving her back her ID and her boarding pass.

Stupid fucking Americans.

With a flourish, Max dipped her head under her duffel and heard it splatter against the ground, kicking the heels of her shoes off to get her feet out, simultaneously taking off her bracelets and belt. It must have taken her only a few moments to retrieve her repulsive flip phone and throw the damn Nokia into the bin, because by the time she was done, the man behind her scoffed in disbelief. If Maximum Ride was one thing, she was quick.

Max stepped in line to get to the reader behind the beautiful Irish woman. She realized that she had forgotten to put her pen inside the bin, and held it out in front of her so that the guards could see that was the only thing that she had.

This was the worst part of the airport. The reader.

The guard gave her the signal to step into the cylinder, and she did, her arms just above her head with the pen in between her hands, her body facing sideways.

"Please raise your arms higher, ma'am," the TSA agent said. Max looked over to a dark skinned woman with thick, pointed glasses. She let out an exhale, and raised her arms higher. "Thank you, ma'am."

The machine started, a rhythmic hum that vibrated Max's sock clad feet. "Look straight ahead," the woman reminded her, and Max just closed her eyes, her heart beating quickly. Max expected the cylinder to move in a full circle, closing the cylinder halfway before opening in just two seconds, but she couldn't feel anything happen. She opened her eyes, and the woman was trying to get the reader to work.

Max watched her signal to another TSA agent, who jogged over to help with the small screen. As soon as he got it back to where the screen was supposed to be, the woman with the pointed glasses gave Max a thumb's up, and to put her arms back up again.

The hum began again, Max's eyes squeezed shut, and the cylinder closed.

And it stayed closed.

Max's eyes shot open, and her arms lowered slowly back to her sides. The grip on her pen whitened her knuckles, and she stood, aghast, watching the woman in the pointed glasses tap furiously on the screen with manicured fingers. Everything was muffled, a buzzing in Max's ears. She banged on the glass with balled fists, feeling claustrophobic in the cylinder.

_"You can get me out of here, can't you?" _Max screamed, the panic rising in her throat almost palpable. The ballpoint pen in her hand was close to being crushed into her fist, and once again she yelled at the TSA agents that were coming closer. They all tried to talk to her, to calm her down, but she couldn't hear anything but the pitch of their perplexed voices.

A wave of fatigue washed over Max, and she felt herself slipping to the ground, her hand against the cool glass. The cylinder was sealed, she knew that, and there was no reason for her to waste any of the oxygen that was left inside of it, especially with hysteria tugging at her insides and her erratic heartbeat pounding in her ears mercilessly. She closed her eyes and covered her ears, hating the panicked hum of voices. She felt like an experiment inside a tank, almost.

Faintly, Max heard a tap on the glass. She looked up to see a piece of paper on the other side of the thick glass. It read:

_Don't worry. We're going to get you out of here. _

Max settled for watching the TSA agents work, their inexperienced hands moving awkwardly on parts of the cylinder, attempting to pry the glass open or shatter it themselves. The only person who seemed to know what they were doing was the woman with the pointed glasses. She seemed liberated by the situation, as if it was just a challenge for her to overcome, a slope, rather than Max's life.

_Boom._

The lights went out. Just for a second, until dim generators powered the necessary parts of the airport. The screen the agents were fumbling at went black. It was getting hotter inside the reader, and Max felt vulnerable, powerless inside the tiny cylinder. _This can't be real, can it?_ _Of course not, right? I'm simply dreaming. _

_No._

More muffled noises of screaming and panic from the crowd. Max faintly wondered about the Irish woman who had just been in front of her. Was she stuck on a shuttle to one of her gates, or was she on the other side being told comforting words just like the rest of the other passengers were?

That's when Max heard it. The first, clear noise since being trapped inside the reader. She wasn't quite sure at first whether or not it was just another muffled yell or not, but she was certain that she was hearing _moaning._

All of her senses were on overload, and even through the thick glass she swore that she could smell the repugnant stench of rotting flesh, could hear the shambling of useless limbs against the linoleum floors in security, could almost taste it. The blood.

Oh, that was the worst part. Max gagged, putting most of her face into her shirt, only sparing her eyes from her tight shirt. She used a hand to hold up the falling material, and another to hold the pen. The blood was so strong, it felt like the sharp, metallic taste was filling up each and every one of her taste buds. _I must be dreaming._

She looked up, finally, to see if she could find the source of the smells, and she regretted it in an instant. She dropped her pen, and her hand went limp at her side, exposing her mouth and nose to the bloody smell, and her eyes to the splattered blood on the cylinder, covering her vision to the outside in a translucent blanket. The moaning was only louder, and it pierced Max's ears with horror as she saw the first one, _eating _the woman in her pointed glasses. Hungrily, the information desk worker gnawed at the woman's dark flesh, her hat long off her head and her clothes tattered. Another bite was visible on the cowgirl's arm, and her intestines seemed to be falling out of her stomach, only being kept together by a precarious thread. The woman was screaming, the cowgirl moaning in delight.

_No._

_No._

_Fuck no._

Max stared, helpless, watching the other passengers meet similar fates. There was blood everywhere. It covered the computers, the bins, the clothes of the TSA agents, and the reader that Max was trapped inside.

She lifted her hands slowly, pressing her palms against the warm glass. This barrier was the only thing protecting her. Those _things _hadn't even noticed her yet, or hadn't smelled her. She had no idea how they found everyone, but the place was becoming a graveyard.

Max looked back to the dark skinned TSA agent who was being torn apart by the cowgirl, and found her remains lying on the ground while other creatures like the information desk worker stumbled over her body. Dead. A life, gone. And most of these as well.

Reality settled in, and Max knew she was either going to die peacefully in the reader, or be torn apart by the others if she made her way out. There were just too many, probably hundreds, hungry and wanting more than what their clouded vision could provide.

They were all dead, but had come back. _No. Zombies? _It was overwhelming. _This can't be a dream, _Max decided finally. _I would have waken up by now. _

So she made a plan. She took notes of all the exists that she could make out of the security area, only finding the escalators that brought her down to the lowered area or the ones that were straight out of the reader. They lead to the waiting area for the shuttle, and the basements as well. She'd have to take her chances with the shuttle area.

Shaking hands held Max's only weapon, a pen. She removed her socks, knowing they would slow her down, but kept them in her pocket for when she might get outside and blister her feet on the asphalt. The enormity of the situation was beginning to settle in.

_Boom._

The lights went on, the electricity returning momentarily to all of the airport. The reader opened again, the scent of death smacking Max in the face. It was even stronger.

The sound of the reader opening again must have alerted some of the zombies, because as soon as it opened, their heads swiveled back to her.

_This is my only chance._

Max ran as fast as she could, swiveling through zombies with deft speed. She slid down the rail of the escalator, and a wave of fear that had been infesting Max's body seemed to leave. There were barely any of them down there, but the ones that were there started to notice her. She needed to think quick.

Barefoot, Max ran to the closest shuttle and began pressing the button furiously. There was a winding sign above her that read, ALL A, B, AND C GATES, and she watched it disappear and reappear on the screen twice before it was replaced with something else.

I TOLD YOU THEY WERE COMING.

The doors to the shuttle opened, and Max stepped inside. It was empty except for two of the zombies. More of them, started to realize Max leaving.

"Fuck! Fuck, hurry the fuck up!"

The doors closed. The two zombies were approaching Max with a slow, steady shamble. Rolling her sleeve over her hand, she pinned the first, a woman, to the wall, stabbing her pen in the woman's eye. Blood began to spill onto her sleeve, and was so close to hitting Max's face that she was worried that it would seep into her as well.

Over and over again, into the eye, but Max knew that there was still another, and the shuttle was going to slow down to the A gates and open either more of the zombies, or unaware people on the other side of the airport.

She grabbed the pen out of the zombie's eye, steadying herself with the former woman's unruly, dry hair. At that very moment, the other zombie moaned right behind Max, so close to her that she worried if she was already infected.

"Oh, no you _fucking don't,_" she said, dropping to the ground and pulling on the zombie's ankle. It fell to the ground. Max scrambled to her feet, grabbed the other zombie by the back of the head, and began smashing it into the pole. She yelled, tears threatening to pour over the surface of her eyes, but she refused to let that happen, refused to let the colour red overwhelm her to the point of where she couldn't go on. She had gone on this far.

Maximum Ride was going to survive.

The shuttle stopped, and it wasn't because she had reached the A gate, but the power had gone off again, severing her vision. The only light was from the tunnel she was in.

Max cleaned her pen on the shirt of the first woman and slid it into her pocket, then reached for the looped hand holds at the top of the shuttle, trying to rip out the leather from the ceiling, but it was no use. She couldn't get it out.

The door to the shuttle was similar to an elevator, and it was a known fact that she could slip something inside of it to get it to open, just for a minute. Max grabbed her pen and tried to pry open the door. The pen created a small enough space to where she could get a finger in, and then two, and then her other fingers to open it up by herself. It was dark outside the shuttle, darker than it had been inside, regardless of the ominous light that hung over Max's vision.

"Over here!" A voice hissed, barely a whisper. Max could barely hear it over her heartbeat, but she followed the voice's path to a door that read EMPLOYEES ONLY. A hooded figure stood in the doorway, holding a gun and a few knives. One of the knives was pointed at her.

"Whoa, I'm not going to try anything-"

"Are you bit?"

Max paused. "No, no I'm not."

"Scratched?"

"No."

The voice was obviously male, and he was stern and even. A pale hand extended a long, serrated knife towards Max. "We're going to get out of here."

"Alive," Max added.

"Alive," he agreed. He didn't offer any other words to her as he opened the door out of the tunnel, sunlight hitting her dead in the eye.

_I wish this was a dream._


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for not updating for a while! I'll make sure I do that. I've been swimming in exams and it's been EXHAUSTING. Hope you guys survived too! Happy holidays.**

**Disclaimer: *sigh***

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"It's not exactly what I thought it would be like," he said, trying to make light of the situation, of the fact that they were stuck at the airport's fifth floor parking garage, dodging and trying not to gain the attention from the stray zombies that were baking from the sun.

"What?" Max asked.

The enormity of the situation hadn't settled in. She figured it would; after all, she had killed two zombies with just a ballpoint pen (She knew that PenMate was a good idea). She wasn't thinking much of anything, and the only thing that occupied her simple mind was music, background music that kept getting stuck in her head, the kind of song that she didn't know all the words to, where just the chorus would be repeated.

_You hid there last time, you know we're gonna find you._

"The zombie apocalypse - or any apocalypse, for that matter. I never thought it'd be me and a girl from New Zealand walking to the car to avoid the cannibalistic zombies in our wake." His lips moved with almost excitement, but his irises could have been painted over eons ago to avoid thinking too much about fears. They were a distilled hazel, like the decision of brown or green eyes was too difficult to process, and were hardly reflecting the harsh sunlight beating down on the two's faces.

Despite the situation, Max laughed. "It is a bit macabre."

"I didn't quite seem to get your name," he asked her, staring at her with those distilled eyes.

"Does it even matter anymore?"

He sighed. "I suppose not, but I'd like to remember the first survivor I met. Especially someone that killed zombies with just a _pen_." Max laughed again, a sort of nervous laugh, as she recalled the experience. She felt somewhat naked, the only thing covering her feet the socks she had kept and the pen in her pocket. She knew she had some spare clothes in her car, when they got there, but she had no idea how she was going to get out of there in one piece. If there were that many of them, there were bound to be more.

"I'm Max."

"Simba. Don't laugh at me, or I swear-" He stopped himself when he heard the faint sound of chuckling; his muscles tensed.

"I'm sorry," Max breathed in between giggles, "it's just the best thing I've heard all day."

* * *

"Is this it?" Simba asked, pointing to Max's red Jeep. She gave a cut nod, walking over to it and pulling the trunk open. Simba was keeping watch of any zombies that might be an issue, but they were scattered along the edges and mostly interested inside the airport. Max began digging through a sports bag, looking for her trainers, when she found the dull, worn out Nikes that she'd had since secondary school.

"Simba, get to the glove compartment." She said it with a monotonous tone; what was in the glove compartment made her feel hasty and crude, but there was no other choice. She began filing through the rest of the things in her trunk, finding a few bottles of water and a granola bar. They were going to have to find more food.

"Are you kidding me?" she heard Simba breathe out, confused. He returned to the side of the trunk with a handgun in one hand, and cartridges of ammo in the other. "I wouldn't peg you for the pro-gun type."

"It was a gift," she said, dropping the ammo into her sports bag, "and you've got a lot to learn." Max put the gun in the waistband of her jeans.

The two got onto the top of Max's car when Simba started talking about the government, what they would do in the situation. Surely they would handle it.

"Stupid thinking, though," Max said, pulling Simba onto the top of the Jeep. She put a hand over her forehead, shielding her eyes from the harsh light. "They've got bigger problems than this."

From the platform five, she could see the busy highways that lead to Denver International Airport with ease. There was a mass traffic, cars jammed into every open crevice of road, some smushed onto the sidewalks and others flipped over. Billowing tendrils of smoke were rising from a few of them, wisps of smog shrouding the view of the street.

It was obvious that the majority of people down there were already zombies, because the only people she saw outside of cars were shambling on the street, futilely pressing against the passenger windows. It was so loud, so loud, but the only sound that Max could hear was the ringing in her ears. The screaming of children was muted, the car alarms were deafening, and she couldn't even hear herself start to let out a scream before Simba pressed his hand to her mouth, shushing her.

"You can't panic now," he told her. "You can't win if you don't fight."

She nodded solemnly, gathering her senses. Civilization was ending, it was finally ending. The zombie apocalypse, the most realistic one out of all, was beginning.

"We can't leave," Max spoke finally, but she was saying it more to herself than to anyone else. "Not until all this dies down."

For once, Simba showed immediate emotion, shock covering his facial features. His brow furrowed deeply, and the concern in his gaze was alarming. "We can't go back into the airport. We don't have the supplies, the numbers; we can't fight-"

"Simba." Max gave him a comforting look before her gaze hardened. It was such a long shot. "If there's anyone in this parking lot that's like me, then we can find weapons in the cars. Think about all of the supplies inside. There's food, clothes, supplies, we can find batteries, even-"

"I'm not going to wear the clothes of dead people-"

"Well then _you're going to have to learn!_" She suddenly shouted, but immediately regretted it, looking around to make sure she hadn't caught the attention of the drifting zombies. Simba looked like he had been slapped in the face. "I don't like it either," Max said, "but that's what it's going to be from now on."

"How many zombies do you think are in there?" He asked, his tone serious. His pupils seemed to swallow his irises.

"Thousands."

For the first time, Simba began to laugh. It was a cold, heartless laugh, filled with doubt and terror. He kept laughing until it turned into subdued chuckles, then to the occasional snicker. Max just stared at him, waiting for all of this to die down. They needed to be strong.

"Two against thousands." The way he put it, it seemed as if they were walking into a death trap. It was very likely.

"Shut up, Simba," Max said, half meaning it, "and start looking in the cars."

"Without setting off the car alarm?"

"You know what to do." She threw him a water bottle.

They began searching through all of the cars on platform five. It was surprising; whatever they couldn't bring into the airport, they brought into their cars. Max found guns, ammo, knives, and even homemade weapons like match guns and slingshots. Whatever food she found was typically not going to to spoil anytime soon, and there were other novelties that she wished she could grab, but they wouldn't be of any use in this world.

When Simba and Max met up, they had enough weapons to make use of at least twenty people, and enough bags that were small enough to not be obnoxious and easy to run with. They began putting knives in shoes, pockets, and put guns in the waistbands of their jeans. They put ammo in bags, and had eight or nine rifles, not to mention a few shotguns. Max felt considerably heavier when she had finished changing, and was wearing a leather jacket that she had found in a musky pick-up truck. Simba had found thick boots that he could easily run in.

"Okay. What do we know about zombies?" This was the million dollar question, and Max hadn't even thought about it.

"Well, we know the basics, that are typically the same: head shots are the only way to kill them, they're somewhat slow, and avoid getting bitten, or you're just like them."

"Is that it?" It was terrifying how little they knew.

"There's so many variables," Max said, exasperated. How were they supposed to know anything until they got there? Could they smell them? Could they see them?

"Then we'll have to imagine they're the worst kinds of zombies."

"Which are...?"

"FEED zombies, from that book by Mira Grant? Any living thing above forty pounds can turn into a zombie - that's a bit above fifteen kilograms for you - and, if they're trying to get a bigger pack, they'll do anything to infect you: biting, bleeding, spitting, even vomiting will do. They get killed by head shots, too, but they're a lot smarter in packs."

_What the fuck? How did he know this much? _

"So, no contact whatsoever or we're dead. _And _we have to worry about zombie cows."

"Say goodbye to steak, I guess."

* * *

"Are we ready to go?" Simba asked from the front of the Jeep. Max was taking inventory of the things they were leaving behind.

"I suppose."

Suddenly, Simba pulled Max into a great hug. He didn't let go for a few seconds, so Max was able to bask in the warmth that didn't come from the merciless sun. His heartbeat was erratic in his chest, and she was small enough that she fit just right into the crook of his neck. He let go, still half-holding her, and let out a shaky sigh. Max gave out a chuckle.

"Thank you," he said, hugging her again.

She laughed.

"Don't thank me yet."

* * *

**DUN DUN DUN... Thank you to CatieBug14 for the OC idea! **

_-SOCIALLYOBSCENE_


End file.
